Intervention
by Ink On Paper
Summary: Because for some reason, she just can't get him to comprehend what she's saying . . . . That he's a good person. Which is why she loves him . . . . Tag to False Witness.


**A/N: It's been a while, hasn't it? My muse, as I assured someone earlier, has not taken leave or run out of inspiration (if anything, there's too much inspiration) however time has gotten a bit pinched and teachers have gotten a bit demanding. Fortunately, I am on winter break as of yesterday (with more homework over the next to weeks than schoolwork in the past two months) and there should be (Christmas preparations and school assignments permitting) several fics up over the course of the next two weeks. I have some Holiday stuff to finish and post and some oneshots regarding the Enemies arc as well as Broken Arrow . . . . I didn't love False Witness (in fact, it was one of my least favorites to date) however the Tony/Ziva scene (and you know the one) made up for that tenfold. Both Weatherly and de Pablo deserve awards for that performance. So, enough of my rambling and on to a little False Witness tag (which could mean spoilers!) Much love and keep the peace, until next time, Kit.**

**DISCLAIMER: Dear Santa, I want NCIS for Christmas. Thank you, Kit.**

**Intervention**

"You think this will help?" he asks skeptically, eyeing the benign wooden door as if he's suspicious it will engage in some personal vendetta against him. He can practically feel her stare boring into the back of his coat, his neck. Quite possibly his soul.

"I think it will provide closure," she replies with a nod of affirmation though his back is turned and he's unaware of the gesture. "Go," she urges, "make peace."

"With who?" he mutters under his breath, forgetting that super hearing comes with the ninja territory.

"With her. With yourself."

And he nods, sighing, bravely opening the door because, alas, she's right. And they both need it.

...

She remains where she was when he first entered the room, leaning up against the corridor wall across from the door marked B. Bitner. No muffled noises escape into the hallway, no sobs, or screams, or fervent whispers. The heating system makes a steady droning noise and the center is mercifully lacking the pungent antiseptic smell that puts her so easily on edge. So she sighs, closes her eyes, and waits.

...

It's the click of the door handle that prompts her into opening her eyes, just in time, too, to see him slip out into the hallway. He's face is drawn and he does look quite old underneath the garish florescent lighting, but his eyes are bright with a calmness that denotes reconciliation.

He offers her a weak grin.

"Are you ready?" she asks, bypassing the invasive _How did it go? What did she say? _Because it isn't her business anyway. And he nods, allowing her to forge the path to the nearest exit, wanting to leave as soon as humanly possible, but apprehensive to become lost.

...

She lets him off at his place, waiting patiently as he lingers at the car door, words gathering at his tongue but his lips refusing to set them free. So they just stare at each other for a few minutes, with the cold air rudely stampeding into the warm car and snow congregating on his shoulders.

"Tony," she says, only his name, nothing more, and like the charm shattering the spell, he returns to a semi-functional state, schooling his features into a tired grin.

"Zee-vah." And it is a woeful attempt to lighten the situation and put her concern at ease.

She cocks her head to the side, determined to let him break the ice palace he's erected around himself even though her mind screams at her to say something.

He beats her to it; raising a white flag and uttering "Good night, Ziva" in which the syllables of her name are not drawn out teasingly and his tone does not imply that he himself will be having such a night.

And regardless if they were sleeping together tonight or not, she knows she will not have a good night either.

...

It isn't until she's laying in her own bed that she realizes his eyes had taken on that flat, pensive quality again.

And when she flicks on the bedside lamp and flips open her cell phone, fingers pressing the familiar numbers without much thought, she tells herself reflexively that she is only calling him because she cannot sleep, her stubbornness at getting to the pit of his melancholy keeping her awake.

Because she's tired and selfish and not worried, definitely not worried.

But she _is_ worried as the phone rings twice, and the worry is growing, metastasizing cyclically. It's like a feedback loop, a snowman effect. And –

"Ziva?"

"Tony?"

"Yeah." And he sounds exhausted.

"I'm coming over."

There's a pause then an exhalation; of relief, of fatigue, she can't be too sure. "Okay."

...

She's standing at the threshold of his front door fifteen minutes later and normally, he would chastise her teasing for speeding and breaking several major traffic laws but tonight he just regards her wearily.

"We need to talk," she announces, stepping around him and into the living room, not even bothering to take off her coat. He doesn't respond, only blinks at her slowly and she wants to scream at him out of frustration. "When I said we need to talk, Tony, I meant _we _need to talk," and there's a joke in there somewhere about those words normally being scary, but he doesn't deliver and she continues on: "I only now the top of the iceberg, yes? The part with Brenda and yet, I do not believe you are being totally honest with me, Tony. Now what is bothering you?" And she resists the urge to stomp her foot.

"I've . . . . been thinking."

_Of course_, she thinks, but instead responds patiently, encouragingly, "What about?"

"I'm a forty year old man, Ziva."

Her brow furrows in confusion, "I am aware of that."

"What am I doing? I mean, come on! Most guys my age are married with kids and a dog, griping about taxes and worrying about house notes. All Brenda was looking for in life was the American dream."

"So you are upset because you are not married or because of Brenda? I am confused."

He sighs, moving past her to sit down heavily on the couch as Ziva pivots to watch him uncertainly. "All anyone wants in life is happiness, Ziva. That's it. But right now, there doesn't seem to be much of that."

"And that is somehow your fault?" she asks incredulously.

"Brenda-"

"Loved you, perhaps. But Tony, you cannot honestly think you were the sole reason for her depression? You are giving yourself too much credit."

He glares.

And she keeps talking.

"Do not get me wrong, Tony, you are important, yes, but you cause, I would think, more happiness than sorrow. What about everything you do for NCIS? For the people we help? What about them?"

"They aren't the happiest people, Ziva."

"No, but I like to think we help them heal. We do not kill their loved ones, though we catch the people who do . . . . Tony! McGee, Gibbs, Ducky, Abby! Palmer! You make them happy! You make them smile and you protect them and watch their backs –they count, do they not? What about me? What about the happiness you've given me? You make me happy, Tony." She crouches down in front of him, makes him look her in the eyes, makes him listen. "You have a family, Tony. I am your family. Our team, they are your family . . . . _I _love you."

"You shouldn't," he tells her sadly and she shakes her head obstinately, "Get over yourself, DiNozzo . . . . Unless that is the problem? That I love you?"

"I never said that!"

"You did not need to!"

"Ziva, that's ridiculous!"

"Is it? So you then think you are unlovable?"

"What?"

She startles him by standing up abruptly and he thinks, fleetingly, that she's given up, that she's going to leave, to hell with him and his issues. Instead, she stalks down the hall and into, presumably, his bedroom. When she doesn't come back, he gets up, joints protesting, and follows after her, stifled curiosity peaked.

She isn't in the bedroom, but the master bathroom door is open and the light is on and he finds her standing in front of the sink, arms crossed, back to the mirror.

He opens his mouth and starts to ask, "What are you-" but she interrupts with, "Come here."

He approaches her, allows her to guide him, maneuver his body until he is standing, staring into the mirror. He looks like hell, in a rumpled t-shirt with his hair mussed up in all directions from his fingers and dark shadows dwelling beneath his eyes. And her reflection is standing next to his, anchored to his side, mahogany eyes staring ahead pointedly, a halo of dark curls framing her face.

"I asked you once what a woman could possibly see in you and then this afternoon you asked who you are and I think these questions need to be addressed. You are a good man, Tony. A strong, kind man who works too hard and worries more than what shows. A funny, gentle man who cares too much and, when he allows himself to, loves too hard. You obsess over people, over their opinions and their feelings and their wellbeing because you are a good person. You feel responsible out of loyalty, out of compassion and friendship. Yes, yes, you can be an idiot. And you certainly can be immature and irritating, but you keep us sane when the odds are against us and you lift us up when we arer at our lowest. No matter what I or anyone else does, no matter how cruel or stupid we are, you come anyway. You offer hope and a smile when needed, a shoulder and an ear, a joke or a firm kick to the pants when we need you to . . . . Why can you not see what everyone around you sees?" Her voice trails off and she turns her face away from the mirror, angling her body so she can look up at his profile, studying him.

"Why," she asks softly, "can you not see what I see?"

And he turns to her then and she watches as something in his eyes breaks. And then he's clinging to her, fingers fisting into her coat, face burying between the junction of her neck and shoulder. A shudder runs through him as she rubs circles into his back, closing her eyes, making little noises in the back of her throat.

And he doesn't know how long she stands there holding him in his bathroom, but he's glad she there.

**A/N: :^)**


End file.
